Tragically, Internet, I have lost my ability to not poop. I should be able to point to at least two days last week when I talked about not going poop on this website, but I can’t. I can’t even point to two days from last month. I haven’t talked about not going poop in almost six months. That’s one, two, three, four, five, SIX MONTHS OF REGULARITY. I feel like I’m cheating.

I can point to several reasons why my body has made this change: first, I started eating more than a bowl of oatmeal at lunch. Who knew that food makes you go poop? Two, I started pacing my water intake throughout the day, eight ounces here and there instead of 64 ounces in one gulp without stopping to breathe. Three, when I was in the hospital over a year ago my doctor prescribed me enough Neurontin to kill a hippo. I was in such an anxious state, however, that all it did to me was enable me to sit still. In the last several months I have tapered off this drug almost entirely, and I can’t say that it gave me back my ability to poop because I never had that in the first place. But it did give me someone’s ability to poop, could be yours and if it is I’m sorry but I’m not giving it back.

This is criminal how you regular people live. Pooping for people like me is damn near as rewarding as sex, so when I get to go every day it’s like HOT DOGS FOR EVERYONE! You people can go to the bathroom without worrying about whether or not you’re going to come out alive, do you have any idea the number of years of my life I have left on the bathroom floor because I offered them up in exchange for the opportunity to see the green in my husband’s eyes just one more time? And don’t you think I should bring that up over a romantic dinner? That I almost died pooping but the memory of his face is what saved me?

While having Jon home has helped alleviate my anxiety so much that I have been able to reduce my medication it has had the unfortunate effect of giving us both chronic gas. Bet you didn’t think you’d get to read about someone else’s gas today, did you? MERRY CHRISTMAS. I can’t decide which is worse yet, not being able to go poop or being able to go poop but having to fart every two minutes. Jon Googled chronic gas the other night and discovered that the average person farts at least 14 times a day. At noon the following morning while we were watching Elmo’s World he shot a yawmping ripper from his ass and he looked up at me and said, “That’s 14 and I haven’t even made it to lunch.”

I’m not counting mine — I may talk about constipation on the Internet BUT I WILL NOT COUNT MY FARTS — but I have a feeling that both Jon and I are farting enough to warrant our own scientific study: FAMILY FARTS A HOLE INTO THE OZONE. This morning I was feeling a deadly bout of gas come on at the precise moment Leta’s occupational therapist walked up and knocked on the door. I sucked it back up inside me when she stepped into our living room because she is one of the two people in this world who do not need to know about my gas, she and Leta’s developmental therapist. I have an irrational fear that they are going to give Leta an evaluation that says, “Child cannot walk because the mother farts.”

Holding your gas is never a good idea, anyone who works in an open-plan office knows the pain, and once I cut off its chance to see daylight it tried to get out by burning a hole in my stomach. I thought I was going to explode, and when the occupational therapist asked how I was doing I opened my mouth and said, “HAAAGH–.” She asked me what I had said and I answered her again, “HAAAAAAAAGGGHH–.” CHILD CANNOT WALK BECAUSE THE MOTHER SWALLOWED A HAIRBALL. Jon walked upstairs and saw the look on my face and asked if I was okay. All I could do was concentrate on his face and hope to explain everything later over a romantic dinner.